


Captive of the Silent Isle

by Candamira, germankitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: hd_owlpost, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16882518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/germankitty/pseuds/germankitty
Summary: When Draco Malfoy is sentenced to life-long exile on the Silent Isle, a tiny, rocky island in the Black Lake, Harry Potter knows he can't live with this blatant injustice.





	1. PART I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallMeHopeless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeHopeless/gifts).



> Happy holidays, everybody, and especially to our giftee CallMeHopeless and the darling mods who make this wonderful fest happen every year. Thank you! The story is loosely based on Tennyson's evergreen The Lady of Shalott. We took some liberties with it and came up with a totally (TOTALLY!) unexpected plot-twist. ;-)

>   
>  On either side the river lie  
>  Long fields of barley and of rye,  
>  That clothe the wold and meet the sky;  
>  And thro' the field the road runs by  
>  To many-tower'd Camelot;  
>  And up and down the people go,  
>  Gazing where the lilies blow  
>  Round an island there below,  
>  The island of Shalott.  
> 

Harry gripped the handrail in front of his seat when Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly-elected Minister of Magic, rose to give the verdict.

"This is the will of the Wizengamot: Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to a life of exile on the Silent Isle. You will surrender your wands. You will be solely responsible for all aspects of daily life, be it growing and preparing food, clothing, cleaning or necessary repairs. You will be provided instruction; it is your choice to avail yourself of it, or not. You will have no outside contact."

The Minister drew himself up to his full height, his expression stern.

"You have the right to refuse this sentence. Should you do so, you will be immediately sent to Azkaban to live out your lives within its walls. Make your choice now."

Mrs Malfoy had blanched but met Kingsley's eyes without flinching. "I accept," she said quietly, her cultured voice betraying nothing.

The Minister turned towards Malfoy, who stood ramrod-straight, his face frozen in a semblance of haughty disdain. Still sitting in the witness box from where he'd given evidence, Harry recognised the façade for what it was ‒ having watched Malfoy for years, he knew the minuscule twitching of facial muscles and the bobbing Adam's Apple as he swallowed several times indicated distress.

"And you, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco nodded. "I— I accept," he whispered, clenching his hands in his lap before he managed to look up, once again outwardly composed. "I accept," he repeated more strongly over the swell of murmured comments coming from the rows of spectators filling the courtroom. Harry was sure only he noticed that Malfoy was even paler than usual, that the apparent indifference was little more than a mask.

"Very well." Kingsley splayed his hands on a large, ancient tome in front of him. "All hear: Sentence has been passed according to the laws of Wizarding Britain. The accused have accepted the verdict before witnesses." He picked up his wand and forcefully tapped it on the ornate desk reserved for the Minister, producing a loud bang. "Case closed. Aurors, take them away."

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Harry almost smiled when Mrs Malfoy just looked at the Auror grabbing her arm until the man squirmed, blushed and let go. She strode slowly out of the courtroom with her head held high as he scurried to keep up. Draco, however, stumbled in the grip of a second, burly Auror as he was being led away. Harry winced in sympathy.

Having caught glimpses of Draco's fear and reluctance through his mental link with Voldemort when Draco had been forced to torture people on Voldemort's orders had been bad enough. Seeing the grey eyes filled with disdain and fury even greater than during their time at school as Draco passed him was worse.

Harry didn't like it. At all.

It wasn't just that he honestly believed the sentence was too harsh – after all, Mrs Malfoy had lied to Voldemort on his behalf, and nothing could shake his conviction that Draco had deliberately given up his wand that day at Malfoy Manor. No, it was also that he wanted to run to Draco, take him somewhere safe and tell him … he didn't actually know what.

What he did know was that it would have to wait. Right now, he had to try one last time to talk to Kingsley. Determinedly, he strode towards the massive double doors guarding the courtroom exit, making his way to Level One.

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"Harry," Shacklebolt rumbled as he shrugged back into his regular colourful robes. "What can I do for you?"

Harry barely waited until the door closed behind him. "What the hell, Kingsley," he blurted. "What were you thinking?"

The Minister sat down behind the massive desk, covered with files and parchments of all sizes that dominated the office, inviting Harry to do the same with a wave of his hand. Harry simply shook his head. Kingsley sighed.

"I assume you're referring to the verdict handed out to the Malfoys."

"Damn straight I am!" Harry started to pace. "Really, Kings – that sentence is way too harsh if you ask me. Confiscating their wands, okay. Having to do all the physical work, maybe. But putting them into what amounts to solitary confinement for life? Don't you think that's overkill?"

"It's the law." Kingsley looked at him steadily. "You were there when I swore to honour and uphold it for everybody just a few weeks ago. You even told me that you were glad to know someone would be in charge who wasn't going to turn a blind eye or look for loopholes. Or have you already forgotten?"

Frustrated, Harry stopped at the artificial window, leaned against it and ran a hand through his hair. "No, I haven't," he sighed. "But dammit, Kings ‒ Draco was almost certainly forced to take the Mark; he gave up his wand to me at Malfoy Manor. And Narcissa lied to Voldemort for me!"

"We have only your word for that."

"So use Veritaserum and ask them!"

"There are ways around the serum; as we must suspect the Malfoys, or any of the Death Eaters, are familiar with them, it's been declared inadmissible in court."

Harry wanted to scream. "I told you, without them, without their help, I'd probably be dead. We might have lost the War. Have _you_ forgotten _that_?"

"Of course not," Shacklebolt replied calmly. "It's the reason why they're being sent to the Silent Isle instead of Azkaban. Even assuming that they were under duress, a moment or two of regret – or maybe just fear, who knows – is not enough to spare them the consequences of their actions."

"Well, yeah, but ‒ they were trying to protect their family!"

"So did many others who did not join Voldemort and suffered for it," the Minister stated. "After willfully turning a blind eye more than once, accepting spurious excuses and showing inappropriate leniency in far too many cases the last time, the Wizengamot decided to strictly follow the letter of the law." He paused, then added, "We owe it to the victims to make an example of the guilty."

"Surely one exception—"

"No." Kingsley fixed Harry with a hard stare. "No exceptions. None. Not even for you, Harry," he said with finality. "I'm sorry."

ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ

A tiny smile curved Shacklebolt's lips as Harry's expression turned stony and he left without another word. "Ever the hothead, aren't you, Harry?" he murmured to the retreating back. "It's about time you learned to trust your elected Minister."

ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ

 _This isn't over yet,_ Harry vowed silently as he went home to Grimmauld Place. _I'm not going to forget._ He'd go back, making further appeals ‒ not today or tomorrow, but soon. As often and as long as it took to make people see sense.

Meanwhile, he would simply do whatever he could to watch out for both Malfoys. The Silent Isle lay in the Black Lake, within viewing distance of Hogwarts. Where Harry would be as soon as the school reopened in the autumn, to finally have his seventh year and sit his N.E.W.T.s … and on a fast broom, it was only a short flight from the school to the old castle ruin on the Isle.

In his mind, he heard an echo of Dumbledore's voice: "There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right."

Harry knew that even if he had to handle everything without his friends this time, for him this choice was both.

ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ

>   
>  Willows whiten, aspens quiver,  
>  Little breezes dusk and shiver  
>  Thro' the wave that runs for ever  
>  By the island in the river  
>  Flowing down to Camelot.  
>  Four grey walls, and four grey towers,  
>  Overlook a space of flowers,  
>  And the silent isle imbowers  
>  The Lady of Shalott.  
> 

Pansy and Blaise waited at the gate with us, both silent and solemn as if they were attending a funeral. I couldn't deny that I felt the same. And going by the longing looks Mother stole at the manor and her gardens when she thought I wasn't paying attention, she would miss this place ‒ this life ‒ even more than I. The Aurors who would Side-Along us to the Silent Isle must appear any moment; it was time to say goodbye.

"Here," I said and pressed the bunch of original keys into Blaise's hand. He didn't close his fingers around it, only crooked them when it threatened to slip from his palm into the mud at our feet. Spring rains had soaked the grounds; yellow winter aconites, blue grape hyacinths and a few cheeky pink tulips already rose from the lush lawns.

"And one for you, too." I held out a duplicate key ring to Pansy, who took it without looking at it. They were the official bailiffs and also executors-to-be ‒ once Mother and I died in exile ‒ of Malfoy Manor. Both had sworn to use what was left of the treasures in our vaults after paying reparations to keep it in good shape. And us in good memory, as we would never return.

The Wizengamot had granted us enough months of house-arrest to get things organised. In hindsight, the time had flown by in a haze of grief as Father had been taken to Azkaban immediately after the trials. When we weren't mourning, we went to meetings with the Goblins at Gringotts, our family lawyer, Pansy and Blaise, and ‒ hear, hear ‒ even one with Potter. He'd lamented an awful lot about how he'd done his best to save us from being sentenced to a lifelong stay in Azkaban and also from being exiled to the Silent Isle for the rest of our lives.

I lost track of his arguments after a while because honestly, he looks gorgeous when he's all worked up ‒ all flashing green eyes, clenched fists, and magic crackling around him. Salazar, even his hair looks aggressive then, somehow more spiky, as if his curls, full of Potterish righteousness, were rising up against injustice just like he does.

Four Aurors appeared out of thin air, mud splashing where their heavy boots hit the ground.

" _Expelliarmus_ ," they shouted in unison, and our wands flew out of their sheaths and into the Aurors' hands.

"Good morning to you, too, sirs," I said and put a hand on Mother's arm, sensing her steely composure falter at the harsh treatment. Icy comments, her default weapon against rudeness, might make matters worse. A sly show of goodwill instead ‒ well, it wouldn't bring us freedom but at least we would leave the wizarding world with dignity. With dignity and nothing else. We weren't allowed to take anything with us except a change of clothes or two and the memories we carried in our minds.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Pansy cried out, "Draco!" and flew into my arms like a bride into her presumed-dead husband's who had just returned from war. Gone was her quiet show of acceptance; she wetted my cloak with her tears and clung to me as if she planned to keep me there by the sheer strength of her arms.

Blaise didn't act quite as dramatic, but his dark eyes smouldered with unspoken rage and sadness. I covered the hand he had put on my shoulder with mine for a heartbeat, then loosened Pansy's grip around my waist and pushed her gently away from me.

"I know," I said. "I know." I couldn't deal with emotional outbursts then, worn as I was from grief, rage and the stress of arranging matters as if I had been arranging my own funeral.

Her eyes, dark as Blaise's and yet so very different, were still swimming with tears, which I took for a great compliment. Pansy wasn't one prone to crying. She squared her shoulders and stepped back to where Blaise had already retreated. Unmoving they stood while the Aurors came for us, two keeping their wands trained on Blaise and Pansy despite having taken their wands from them. The other two each grabbed Mother and me by an arm for Side-Alonging. I glanced back at our home one last time, drinking in the beauty of the blossoming magnolia trees before the grey walls until the sickening tug of Apparition gripped me behind my navel.

ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ

"Welcome to the Silent Isle." Minister Shacklebolt's deep voice was unmistakable. In my opinion, the mossy expanse of rock and soil we'd just set foot on was neither an island ‒ too small ‒ nor silent. The singing of the wind reminded me of flying Quidditch manoeuvres; diving head-first into a Wronski Feint used to cause a similar sound in my ears.

"Minister." I nodded a greeting. Mother said nothing but stood straight and stiff beside me.

"As you can see," the Minister gestured as if he were ushering us into a palace, "this island is much more hospitable than Azkaban." He turned slowly until he faced the ruin of a small castle built on the highest point of the island.

Mother shuddered at my side, either from the chill the air still carried this far north or from the prospect of living in this sorry excuse of a dwelling. Defiant and sturdy, the structure overlooked the deep waters of the Black Lake. The weathered stones were covered with lichens and ivy. How different it was from our elegant home ‒ or even Hogwarts! My old school, showing some bright spots where new stones replaced old ones in the walls destroyed in the war, rose at the far Lakeside. The windows and dark-tiled roofs of the castle's many towers twinkled in the sun.

"Admittedly, it may not be in the best shape, but at least the tower is habitable. Given that you will grow your own victuals and take care of the livestock," Shacklebolt pointed at what looked like a chicken coop and a goat tethered next to it, "you won't be spending too much time inside anyway."

The tower he was speaking of was part of the south-western wall from which the island sloped gently towards the water, while the northern shore was just a steep slide of rock.

The wind blew his words over the rippling waters of the Lake as he continued. "There are worse places to spend the rest of your lives. Though I doubt you'll ever get the chance to thank him, never forget it was Mr Potter who convinced the Wizengamot and myself to soften the sentence and exile you to here instead of Azkaban. I don't know what moved him to speak so vehemently on your behalf, but if every defendant had a proponent like him, Azkaban would hardly be needed anymore in a short time."

Shacklebolt turned to face us at last, his violet cloak swirling around his legs. "In case you're counting on any old acquaintances to stay in touch or even help you escape, forget that notion immediately before you get too used to it."

The jewels on his cap glittered sapphire blue like Mother's eyes when he continued: "This island has been put under a shield charm that blocks you from any kind of outside contact, except anything weather-related."

A shadow crossed his face and he stared over at Hogwarts as if he had to read his next words from the faraway walls. But when his eyes focused on us again, the pondering expression was gone. "I shall leave you to Aurors Morrister and Carduroy now. They will show you everything you need to know and make sure you're familiar with the emergency protocol before they return."

He held out his hand. "Mrs Malfoy, Mr Potter may have exaggerated your role in his survival, but I'm still grateful for whatever small deed you performed that helped keep him alive."

Mother looked as if she were forced to touch a rotten fish. Her glare was icy enough to freeze flames. "I'm convinced he appreciates your trust in his words very much." She dropped his big hand, hers twitching with what I interpreted as the suppressed need to wipe it clean on her cloak.

"Goodbye, Minister," I said, also exchanging a brief handshake with him. Under my breath, because there was no need to part at odds, I added, "and why don't you check Potter's memories. A short dive into a Pensieve can clarify things faster than any discussion."

"Enjoy your stay," he replied, not giving away whether he'd heard my comment or not. His white teeth flashed as an unexpected smile crossed his face before he left.

"Funny," I murmured. I love the countryside, I grew up in Wiltshire, for Salazar's sake. I can name every rose in our gardens. Every orchid in the greenhouses. And of course, I know how to grow vegetables, seven years in Professor Sprout's classes have left their mark. But taking care of chickens? And worse, a goat? I pulled my cloak tighter around me, sighed, and followed the two Aurors and Mother up the hill to the castle.

ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ

Mother stared at the spinning wheel, the small weaving loom, then down at her elegant, long white fingers, and from there to the heap of raw, greasy wool that lay in the corner like a giant dust bunny.

"And now the highlight." Auror Morrister led us out of what I thought might become our living room and into a smaller room. The kitchen, if I took the enormous open-hearth fireplace for a hint. But much more interesting was the stone basin in the darkest corner of the room.

"A Pensieve?" I blurted, throwing composure overboard at the sight of many phials filled with silver memories lined up on a high shelf beside the Pensieve.

"Indeed," Morrister said drily. "Well spotted, Mr Malfoy."

Oh, how I wished I had my wand on me. "What's in there?" I did my best to not let sarcasm seep into my voice.

"Memories," Carduroy said and looked at me with raised eyebrows.

I didn't act upon the provocation, even though I almost choked when I swallowed a snide reply. "Obviously. But what kind of memories?"

"Silver ones."

He was enjoying himself, the bastard. I didn't say anything, just looked at him and waited.

"It's all right, Auror," Mother chimed in. "It doesn't matter if you don't know. We have all the time in the world to find out by ourselves."

With a sigh and an eye-roll, Morrister deigned to explain the presence of the Pensieve to us. "They're Muggle memories. How to preserve fruit and pickle vegetables, for example. Or how to clean fish. Recipes and step-by-step instructions of how to cook basic dishes, stews and the like. Whatever you might need to learn to survive here, you'll find it in one of the phials. They are spelled to empty into the Pensieve when opened and suck the memory back in as soon as you're through with it."

He pointed at a wooden bucket I hadn't noticed before. "This is for the well in the inner courtyard which I'll show you and then we'll have a nice little stroll around the kitchen garden outside before my colleague will familiarise you with the emergency protocol."

We had already left the room and were standing in the overgrown courtyard when Morrister added, "Oh, before I forget. An elf will pop in once a month and restock basic supplies. Flour, firewood, tea and the like."

For once, the Wizengamot and I were of the same opinion ‒ tea was vital.

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The second the Aurors had Disapparated, Mother sank down on a crude chair at the table in the tower room.

"Draco, dear, I'm not sure whether Mr Potter has really done us a favour by saving us from Azkaban." She caught a stray lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.

"Me neither," I said and sat down on the only other chair. Every muscle in my body hurt. Carduroy had made me raise the emergency flag on the tower roof at least ten times to make sure I really understood how it was done. Then he'd taken me to a small boat and forced me to row around the island along the invisible line of the Shield charm. He had explained magnanimously where best to fish and how, but I was too overwhelmed to remember even half of what he'd said. Hopefully, fishing was covered by one of the memory phials.

But the worst, I swear, was the goat. Such weird eyes! And horns! And, of course, Carduroy wanted me to milk her. Balancing on a ridiculously small so-called milking-stool I had to press my head and neck to the beast's belly and massage and pull the teats in a certain rhythm until milk gushed into the bucket.

"You're a natural," Carduroy had said, clapping his hands in mock applause. Har har.

At least the goat's belly had been warm. I rubbed my dirty hands and looked outside. Clouds had crawled over the mountains and were sliding down the slopes like foggy avalanches. I had lived at Hogwarts long enough to know what that meant: a cold evening and a freezing night. And we didn't have a-

"Fire!" I jumped up, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. "Fu—" I swallowed the rest at the sight of Mother's raised eyebrows. "They didn't even light a fire for us." The phials clattered against each other as I rummaged through them.

"Not labelled," I said through gritted teeth.

Mother sighed. "Of course not. But as I said, we have all the time in the world to figure out how it's done by ourselves."

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>   
>  By the margin, willow veil'd  
>  Slide the heavy barges trail'd  
>  By slow horses; and unhail'd  
>  The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd  
>  Skimming down to Camelot:  
>  But who hath seen her wave her hand?  
>  Or at the casement seen her stand?  
>  Or is she known in all the land,  
>  The Lady of Shalott?  
> 

Harry squinted into the early morning light and limbered up his sleep-laden muscles. Today was the first time he'd be attempting to see how Malfoy was doing.

He'd wanted to go from the day they'd returned to Hogwarts, but getting out of the castle unseen had proved to be quite the challenge: a group of first-year witches had formed a fan club, the members of which seemed to lie in wait for him all over the castle any time of the day.

Thank Merlin for his Invisibility Cloak! As long as Harry didn't trip over one of the girls, he was home free. He reached the broom shed and mounted his Firebolt Mark II without being seen. It should still be possible to fly to the Silent Isle and back before breakfast under its cover.

Just in case someone was watching, though, he performed a few Seeker's drills during which he let his thoughts roam back to a recent conversation he'd had with the Headmistress and his closest friends.

_"Fine, except for those firsties who are stalking me," he'd complained when she asked how they all were adjusting to being back at school._

_"Ah, yes, the Squee Squad," Ginny smirked. "Reminds me of being that age. Thank Morgana, I grew out of it."_

_"Took you long enough," Ron muttered around a mouthful of ginger newts. He still wasn't quite over the fact that she and Harry had broken up._

_"You're quite good at dodging them, though," Luna said dreamily. "Not even the Umgubular Slashkilters can follow you."_

_Neville snorted. "It's even worse in the common room. The Gryffindor ones are staring at Harry like a bunch of Nifflers would at a Gringotts vault."_

_"We're trying to make them stop, but with very little success so far," Hermione added, sounding quite put out._

_"Surely it's not as bad as all that," the Headmistress started._

_In full rant mode, Harry interrupted her rather rudely as he paced around the office. "Like bloody hell it isn't!"_

_"Language, Mr Potter," McGonagall chided him. She sighed when he just shrugged. "You have a point, but … unfortunately it's the price of fame."_

_"Fame that I never sought or wanted," he shot back. "And I still don't." He ran his hands through his hair and flumped into a chair at last. "Look, I could deal if staring and asking me for autographs was all they did, but I draw the line at eleven-year-olds wanting to know what type and colour underwear I'm wearing … or not. It's totally ridiculous! Not to mention kind of creepy."_

_"Yes. And highly inappropriate," McGonagall said, her voice dry as dust. "If any more enquiries of such a prurient nature come your way, feel free to report the persons in question directly to me."_

_It wasn't the most satisfying reply, but Harry had a feeling it was the most sympathy he would get. At least it was more helpful than just being told to 'Suck it up, Harry', so he'd merely murmured his thanks._

_"Meanwhile, do try and be a little gracious towards them. I'm certain things will settle down soon."_

"Can't be soon enough for me," Harry muttered under his breath. He shook off the memory and pointed his broom towards the Lake at last. More than halfway across, yet still a goodly distance from the far shore, lay the Silent Isle.

Where Malfoy was exiled.

Harry simply _had_ to see how he was faring. Which was why he had come down at the crack of dawn, covered himself and his broom as best he could with his Cloak and set out for the island. Below his feet, the Lake's glassy surface gleamed in the morning sun; not even a ripple marred its vast expanse.

But Harry had no eye for the natural beauty. Instead, he registered that the island's distance to Hogwarts was too great to swim across; there were hidden rocks and treacherous currents under the water and its temperature was too cold even in summer. Moreover, anyone desperate enough to try regardless was likely to be attacked by the Grindylows living in the Lake.

Harry was cautious in his approach. He knew that the Silent Isle was enveloped by a Shield Spell; if he squinted just right, he could detect the faint shimmer in the air marking its boundaries. Guiding his broom slowly forward, he eventually came up against the invisible barrier, an area of almost palpable stillness where no man-made sound could pass either in or out ‒ hence the island's name.

He'd come close enough to make out a few details, though. Sitting on the highest point, the ‘castle' was nothing but a squat tower with a somewhat dilapidated structure nestled against one side. The centre ground looked as if it held the bare bones of a kitchen garden, and on the far side was a chicken coop with a few birds and a goat poked her head out of a shed. Other than that, there was no sign of life.

While he was still debating whether to circumnavigate the island or to stay and watch where he was, a door opened and Malfoy stepped outside, a bucket of feed in his hand. With bated breath, Harry drank in the sight of him, noting how the morning sun glinted in his white-blond hair, longer and more casual than he'd ever seen it.

It looked good on Malfoy.

Unbidden, Harry found himself thinking how much he'd love to card his fingers through those longish strands. He shook himself. _Yeah, right. As if he'd ever allow me to touch his hair ‒ or any other part of his body!_ On the heels of that thought, Harry's imagination provided a picture of exactly _which_ body part of Malfoy's he'd love to touch, making him blush hotly.

_Not going there. Nuh-uh. Bad Harry!_

Harry immediately felt glad that he was alone out here. If Hermione had seen his reaction, the lecture about propriety and whatnot would've been epic. Instead, he nudged his broom a few feet to the side, watching as Malfoy let the chickens out to pick and scratch at the grains he scattered onto the ground before collecting a handful of eggs from the coop into a crude basket. He also fetched the black-coated goat with white face markings from the shed, tied her to a post before snagging a low stool and started to milk the beast while she munched through a pile of hay. As soon as he was done, Malfoy then took his eggs and the small bucket back inside the tower. He never once looked in Harry's direction.

Feeling strangely let down, Harry sighed and banked his broom, flying back to Hogwarts at a much slower pace than on the way out.

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>   
>  Only reapers, reaping early  
>  In among the bearded barley,  
>  Hear a song that echoes cheerly  
>  From the river winding clearly,  
>  Down to tower'd Camelot:  
>  And by the moon the reaper weary,  
>  Piling sheaves in uplands airy,  
>  Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy  
>  Lady of Shalott."  
> 

"HAAAARREEEEE!!!"

_Fuck, not the Squee Squad again!_

Groaning, Harry ducked behind the nearest statue of a gargoyle and fumbled in his pocket for his Invisibility Cloak. Not only had he had the devil of a time to ditch Ron, now he had to hide from rabid fangirls, too!

Managing just in time to sling the Cloak over himself, he waited in an uncomfortable crouch until the gaggle of squealing firsties had thundered past. Only when the last echo had faded did he leave his hiding spot, feeling much safer wearing his Cloak as he left the castle, and made a beeline for the broom shed.

He was on his way to yet another foray to the Silent Isle.

Unfortunately, the opportunities to go ‘Malfoy-watching' ‒ without anyone being the wiser, no less ‒ were getting increasingly harder to come by the further the term progressed. There were only so many times when he could claim he had to finish homework assignments ‒ not with Hermione around, wanting to ‘help' him get good grades on his NEWTs. At other times, Ron stuck to him like a leech, trying to coax him into a pickup game of Quidditch, play chess or simply goof off.

He also had to juggle classes, Quidditch and his other friends he didn't want to neglect. At least it was easier to deal with Ginny; now that they were back to being just friends, she no longer watched his every move like a hungry hawk. All things considered, having to dodge his simpering fan club of pre-teen girls was merely annoying, as he could never be sure where or when they were lurking in the hallways, trying to catch him alone.

Okay, so it was driving him spare. What he wouldn't give for a Time-Turner some days!

Safely on his broom at last, he made sure that he was completely covered by the Invisibility Cloak and soared across the Black Lake. By now, Harry was well aware of the Shield Spell's boundaries; he'd catalogued a few markers along the shore and so could stop at a safe distance. If he recalled the exiles' routine correctly, it was about the right time for Mrs Malfoy to take her daily constitutional around the kitchen garden. Maybe, if Malfoy wasn't busy elsewhere, he'd even get to see both of them take a rare break from their chores.

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Hovering high enough above the water that the Giant Squid wasn't tempted to bat a tentacle at him, Harry surveyed the pathetically small mass of land. The island wasn't big to begin with, only an acre or so in total; disregarding the building and tower, the addition of vegetable beds, the chicken coop and a patch of grass for their goat to graze on didn't leave much room for … well, for anything, really.

It made him feel sick and strengthened his resolve to make yet another appeal to the Wizengamot on behalf of Drac-- erm, both Malfoys. In the meantime, he would do what he could, even if it meant just looking out for them from a distance.

Harry was distracted from his gloomy thoughts when Malfoy and his mother appeared from behind the crumbling stone wall on the far side of the house. Apparently he'd missed the beginning of their walk. Malfoy guided his mother to the door and bent to kiss her cheek; she received it with a smile that was almost painful to see.

_It's just like the one Mum's spirit gave me in the Forbidden Forest._

The memory was bitter-sweet and Harry tucked it back into his soul where it belonged. Concentrating on Malfoy again, Harry was glad he didn't follow her inside right away. Instead, he slowly walked to the rocks forming the island's shore, uncaring about the waves splashing water against his trouser legs.

Harry's wand, strapped in a holster against his thigh, buzzed, reminding him it was time to return to Hogwarts. He grimaced; a double period of being not very subtly fawned over by Professor Slughorn in Potions class was very much _not_ among Harry's favourite things to do on a sunny autumn afternoon.

He'd much rather stay and watch Malfoy feed his chickens. Which Harry absolutely refused to think of as ogling, much less stalking. Those were things the Squee Squad did. Not him.

The Holly wand buzzed again, a bit more insistently. Swearing under his breath, knowing he couldn't stay, Harry took one last, lingering look at Malfoy's too-thin frame, clad in ill-fitting, already patched and mended clothes, and reluctantly turned his broom around.

Hopefully, he'd be able to escape Ron's well-meaning but irritating clutches a bit earlier tomorrow. And if he got lucky, maybe he could persuade someone to feed a handful of the newest Wheezes to those pesky fangirls.

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Shortly before Halloween, Harry was flying Keeper drills with Ron and sneaking glances towards the Lake. Hermione had promised to come down and meet them right after her Arithmancy class, which would not only distract both his friends but leave him just enough daylight to visit the Isle and hopefully catch Malfoy working the garden again.

Ron was diving after the Quaffle when a movement beyond the broom shed caught Harry's eye. He braked in mid-air to take a closer look.

A group of flyers, most likely the fourth-year Gryffindors who had been fooling around on the Pitch earlier, were now cavorting over the Lake. Harry frowned, wishing for a moment he had his Omnioculars to see exactly what they were doing. There was a chance that the kids were just having a lark, doing aerial acrobatics on their brooms, but … why did they have to do it right at the Silent Isle? At a time when Malfoy usually was outside?

They were getting close enough to the island to see Malfoy's face and read his expression; Harry should know, it was one of his own favourite spots to watch the man, after all. He also knew that Malfoy would be able to see whoever was out there, too … and suddenly, his gut started to churn. Without thinking, he nudged his Mark II forward.

"Hey! Where are you off to?" Ron called after him, but Harry ignored him, speeding towards the group of younger students. Curious, Ron followed him at a more leisurely pace.

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Malfoy was indeed in the garden, picking vegetables. His back was turned towards the Gryffindors who were hurling insults at him while darting back and forth.

"Hey, Death Eater scum!" yelled the first. Harry recognized him as Euan Abercrombie, an annoying little twit who had bought into the smear campaign started by the _Daily Prophet_ in Harry's fifth year hook, line and sinker. "Why don't you go kiss a Dementor?"

"Enjoy having no magic?" jeered another. "Get used to it, you'll never get a wand back!"

The lone girl among them ‒ something-or-other Olney; her older sister used to be a whiz at Exploding Snap and Wizard Skittles, if Harry remembered correctly ‒ reached into her pocket and pelted something towards Malfoy. There was a loud ‘splat!' as the reddish lump hit the barrier and exploded into a pulpy mess. "I hope your onions are rotten and make you cry!" she shrieked, throwing another.

"You're nothing but a creep!" the third boy shouted, almost falling off his broom as he shook his fist at the barrier.

Due to the Shield spell's soundproofing, Malfoy couldn't hear any of the insults. He didn't betray by so much as a flinch that he was even aware of their presence, which only seemed to spur them on into raucous laughter, making obscene gestures and loudly hurl more insults.

"Bigot!"

"Evil thug!"

"Criminal!"

"Murderer!"

"Drop dead!"

That last shout from Abercrombie was too much. Harry swooped into their midst like an avenging angel, his wand already clutched in his hand and his eyes burning with emerald fire as he shot scarlet sparks at the lot of them.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he roared, beyond furious. It took every bit of restraint he was capable of not to hex the obnoxious little idiots right into the Whomping Willow. "Stop this right now!"

The four miscreants stopped and turned, staring at him. "Why?" Euan asked petulantly. "He's just a Death Eater."

"What do you care?" Olney whinged. "Malfoy was mean to everyone while you were away."

"Yeah, he was always kissing Snape's arse, calling people Mudblood and stuff," the bad flyer sulked. "He never helped against the Carrows, either."

Harry wasn't in the mood to listen. "Shut. Up," he barked. "All of you. Now!"

"But, Harry—" the fourth student started.

"You want me to cast _Silencio_? Because make no mistake, I will." Harry raised his wand. The youngsters quailed under his furious gaze.

"Mate, you can't just hex the sprogs," Ron said quietly from where he'd stopped a few yards back. "Calm down, yeah?"

"Stay out of this, Ron," Harry snapped.

"Okay, okay," Ron replied, raising his hands placatingly. "Hold your Thestrals."

Seemingly oblivious to what was going on in the air, Malfoy continued to pick vegetables.

Harry gave no sign he'd even heard Ron as he was still seething inside. "Get lost," he told the troublemakers curtly. "I'll deal with you later."

The quartet dithered a few seconds before they obeyed. As he flew past, one of the boys glared at Harry and muttered sullenly, "Sheesh. What bug crawled up your arse, anyway?"

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Once everybody's brooms were locked in the shed again, Harry caught up with the foursome in the Gryffindor common room. His temper hadn't cooled at all, so he lit into them in a way that left almost everyone who witnessed the scene speechless.

" … attacking and belittling someone who has no way of fighting back, who is already paying for his wrongs and who has done nothing to you? Give me one, just _one_ reason that would make this okay!"

"Oh come on, Harry!" Abercrombie replied just as vehemently. "Malfoy and his lot did it to us first! It was just a little payback, so why not?"

Harry froze, then slowly turned his head to look directly at the younger boy. "Did you even hear yourself just now?" he asked in a voice that had suddenly gone cold. All the upper years present winced. Harry in a strop, shouting and smashing things was bad enough, but when he went all quiet and calm like this, people could ‒ and sometimes did ‒ get hurt.

Abercrombie shrugged, his expression mutinous. "We weren't hurting anyone," he mumbled. "We did nothing wrong." His cronies nodded and murmured agreement.

Harry barely kept a rein on his temper. "That's what Death Eaters used to say about Muggle-baiting," he said, letting ice drip from his voice. "Which is wrong on so many levels, I can't even think of a number. If you truly believe that there's nothing wrong with petty vengeance, with harassing someone just because you can ... if that's what our House stands for now—" He broke off and drew a deep breath. "Congratulations. You just managed what not even Snape at his worst could ever do. You make me ashamed of being a Gryffindor."

Several people gasped, then a heavy silence settled over the common room. No-one would meet Harry's eyes as he waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he snorted and left, nearly banging the Fat Lady's portrait shut behind him.

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An hour later Harry was sitting on a wide window ledge in an alcove off one of the upper floors. From here, he had a perfect view of the Silent Isle, half-hidden by the approaching mists of a late afternoon at the tail end of autumn. He didn't even stir when his friends finally caught up with him. Ron folded his long legs to sit tailor-fashion beside him, squeezed his shoulder and asked, "You alright, mate?"

He slanted a look at his best friend that made Ron grimace and the tips of his ears turn red. "That bad, huh? Forget I asked."

Hermione budged up against Harry's other side, sighed and leaned her head against his arm. "People are so hypocritical," she murmured. "You were right to call them on their behaviour. It's atrocious."

Harry just shrugged and let the silence linger a little longer before he spoke. "I'm just so sick and tired of this shite."

"We all are," Ginny said. "But … didn't you ever want to get back at the people who hurt you? Pay them back tit for tat?"

"Sure. Who hasn't?" Harry said wearily. "I'm only human. But I'd like to think I know better than to come down on someone who can't fight back." He sighed. "Don't these idiots realise that if they ever manage to provoke Malfoy into a reaction ‒ not that I'd blame him; thank Merlin he couldn't hear the vile tripe ‒ he'll be violating the terms of his sentence? ‘No outside contact' means exactly that; if he gives them _any_ kind of response, he'll be sent to Azkaban faster than you can say ‘Quidditch World Cup'."

"I don't disagree," Neville said at last. "It's just … don't you think you could've handled the situation a bit better?"

Harry scoffed. "Oh yeah? How?"

"Maybe a little less publicly?" Hermione suggested, biting her lip. "Not that you shouldn't have taken them to task, but doing it in front of everyone isn't exactly going to do you any favours in the public's eyes."

"I don't give a flying fuck about the public!"

"If you ever want to accomplish any of the things you talked about after the War, you probably should," Ginny snapped, losing patience with him. "You can't have forgotten already how quickly opinions can change, depending what kind of spin is put on what you say or do. Remember Umbridge? Or all those ‘Undesirable Number One' posters?"

"No, but—"

"Ginny's right, mate," Ron interrupted. "You can't just butt your head against whichever wall you're up against in the hope that it'll crumble if you only keep at it long enough. Or that your head is even hard enough," he added after a moment's pause. "Come on, Harry, for once think strategy, not blunt force!"

Harry huffed and glowered at the siblings.

"Much as I hate to agree with Ron about anything, you're going to _need_ a strategy to deal with the rumours," Ginny muttered.

"Rumours? What rumours?" Hermione sat up, narrowing her eyes.

"Oh, nothing earth-shattering." A hint of mirth sparkled in Ginny's brown eyes as she made an airy little gesture. "Just the ones where people think Harry's only defending Malfoy because he's in love with the berk."

Harry nearly choked on his own tongue. "WHAT?!?"

Neville groaned. "I told you not to tell him!"

"That ‒ that's such a load of tosh," Harry sputtered. "Just because I think Malfoy shouldn't be molested or punished even worse than he already is doesn't mean I'm in love with him!" He almost missed that Hermione's eyebrows rose at the word ‘molested' because he was too busy fighting an unexpected and very much unwelcome blush from staining his cheeks. And silencing the little voice inside his head calling him a liar.

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Later that night, once Euan and friends had grudgingly agreed to stop harassing Malfoy, Harry lay safely ensconced in his bed behind closed curtains, pondering Ginny's earlier pronouncement and how none of his friends had seemed surprised. He scoffed mentally. _Nonsense. I only want to see justice done, that's all._ The fortitude and dignity with which Malfoy faced his drastically-altered life were admirable, no two ways about it. He suspected it must be sheer agony to the proud Slytherin. Once again, he vowed to do what he could, to send yet another petition on Malfoy's behalf to Kingsley and the Wizengamot at the next opportunity. As he curled up under his blankets, willing himself to sleep at last, he murmured to himself.

"I'm not in love with Malfoy. I'm _not_!"

He only noticed he'd forgotten to put up a Silencing charm when he heard Ron mumble sleepily, "You keep telling yourself that, mate."

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	2. PART II

 

> There she weaves by night and day  
>  A magic web with colours gay.  
>  She has heard a whisper say,  
>  A curse is on her if she stay  
>  To look down to Camelot.  
>  She knows not what the curse may be,  
>  And so she weaveth steadily,  
>  And little other care hath she,  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

"Oh fuck." The polish of my upper-class education was wearing thin faster than the soles of my shoes. Which I had just ruined for the day. Walking with a full bucket would never become a strength of mine ‒ again water had sloshed over the rim and soaked my shoes, condemning me to another day of damp, cold feet. Swearing like a dragon wrangler didn't help, but I discovered it had a relaxing effect on me.

I was ready to scream some well-chosen, colourful curses I hoped the wind would carry to Hogwarts where they would ring in Potter's ears when I couldn't help but smile.

"Move your body like a hairy troll  
Learning to rock and roll  
Spin around like a crazy elf  
Dancin' by himself…"

I had curses, Mother had songs. Her soprano rose from the tower window up into the air, and just like that, only by lifting my gaze from the ground to the blue sky and the majestic mountains surrounding the Lake, my gloomy mood vanished. We were prisoners, yes, but in a strange way, we were also freer than we'd ever been before.

Unimaginable, to scream curses down a corridor of the Manor! And asked about Mother's taste in music, I would've listed the usual classical composers since she'd kept her true passion a secret: Mother loved the Weird Sisters. And knew the lyrics of every Celestina Warbeck song.

More water spilling on my feet made me watch my path again. A strange odour wafted from the castle and I cursed again. Instead of making tea, the only luxury product the Wizengamot granted us with the monthly delivery of goods, Mother had hung the pot with self-made dye over the fire. She'd always been a fashion icon, so her mood had lifted significantly once she'd discovered a memory among the many phials that explained how to dye cloth with colours made of vegetables.

On my way back in I opened the stable to let the goat out. I had found out that she returned when she needed to get milked. And although I wouldn't say we'd become friends over the last weeks, we were both aware of the important role we played in each other's lives. I like my tea with a splash of milk and to my own surprise, the tangy quality of goat's milk went well with the plain black tea provided to us.

A hot cup of tea or two was exactly what I longed for then. Summer was near, but the morning chill still bit into my cheeks and my lips and knuckles were red and chapped.

I managed to carry the bucket up the stairs without spilling more water and using a handy rag as a pot holder, exchanged the hot dye pot with the kettle. Mother was at the spinning wheel, lost in concentration and singing as it whirred. Watching her bent back and the touchingly uneven thread she produced, my throat went tight.

Sometimes it was easy to bury any thought of home underneath the struggle of daily survival, but in moments like this, the whole unfairness of our sentence crashed down on me. We weren't made for this life and though we might cope eventually, we'd never be good at spinning, fishing, farming, preserving, pickling and whatever else we still had to learn.

Which reminded me of a task I had to master one of these days. My only excuse was that I hadn't found a memory dealing with the topic yet. The latrine chute. It needed cleaning. And how the hell had people in former times dealt with the … oh, fuck it, I'll just say it ‒ the heap that began to build outside the castle underneath the chute?

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Found the phial. They covered the heap with peat. And later, once it had sat there and composted for long enough, used the result as fertiliser. On food!

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Postponed that particular task.

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Found some solace in the fact that the wind usually blows the smell away from the island towards Hogwarts. Decided to let the heap grow until students would return after restorations were completed. Bigger heap, more stink. Har har.

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> And moving thro' a mirror clear  
> That hangs before her all the year,  
> Shadows of the world appear.  
> There she sees the highway near  
> Winding down to Camelot:  
> There the river eddy whirls,  
> And there the surly village-churls,  
> And the red cloaks of market girls,  
> Pass onward from Shalott.

Potatoes. My mouth watered as I stared at the egg-sized tubers in my dirty hands, close to bursting with pride. My first home-grown potatoes and they looked fantastic. I closed my fingers around them and dreamt of Pommes Duchesse until reality smacked me in the face in form of the goat. The beast had developed a meddlesome affection since I'd freed her from a stone that had got stuck between the toes of her left back hoof.

"Look, kid ‒ potatoes!" I held my tuber-filled hands up to her face but she wasn't interested. "Fine, then go and have some lichens. Or rushes." I shoved her aside which she accepted with a reproachful look from her strange eyes. I stood up and tucked the potatoes in the pockets of my trousers.

Potatoes need about four months to grow, and I had dug them out three weeks after the green bits had died off. I had lost track of time until then, but the prospect of eating potatoes again was motivation enough to count the days.

Four months plus three weeks ‒ August. End of August, or the beginning of September, even! My pulse sped up and a cold knot built in my stomach ‒ summer was almost over. I'd always calmed myself by thinking we still had enough time to get our larder stocked. But autumn was right around the corner and we hadn't preserved enough vegetables by far to keep us fed and healthy through the long Scottish winter.

I dug out some more potatoes until they piled up in a small heap in my lap. All of a sudden, my kitchen garden looked small. Too small. I sat back on my heels as a movement at the Lakeside caught my eye, and the tubers rolled down on the ground.

The Hogwarts Express! Gleaming red, it broke forth from between the mountains, white steam billowing over the wagons and up into the sky. I missed the familiar hammering of steel wheels on tracks echoing from the mountains, a sound so inextricably linked with the sight of the train that not hearing it made me feel cut off the world more than anything before.

I watched, getting more aware of the silence as I imagined the excited chatter of the students who were preparing to leave the Express, some searching for lost pets, others still scrambling into their uniforms.

Snippets of memories flooded my mind: exchanging Chocolate Frog Cards with Pansy and Blaise; inviting Potter to join us and being rejected. The trolley witch! What I wouldn't give for a handful of Bertie Bott's Beans. I looked to the far side of the Lake where Hogwarts sat enthroned, a legion of house-elves within waiting to fill the tables with delicious food and keeping the fireplaces well supplied with logs.

I sat there for a long time, rooted to the spot among my scattered potatoes until the sky had turned completely black. By the faint light of the stars I watched the boats cross the Lake and listened to the distant, joyous squeals of first-year-students that even lured the Giant Squid to the surface. Thestrals, these strange creatures, pulled the carriages with the older students. Hogwarts' windows lit up one by one and a fresh wave of homesickness rushed over me as I pictured the Sorting and Welcoming Feast. The icy knot in my belly turned into an ache that almost tore me apart.

If I couldn't go home, Hogwarts was the place I wanted to be.

Too sad to even shout curses into the wind, I brushed the dirt crumbs from my legs and walked back to our tiny castle, my pockets full of potatoes. The goat nudged my thigh, eager for a scratch behind the ears. The poor thing, I wasn't able to care that night.

Not even about Potter, who was probably already slouched in an armchair in the Gryffindor common room, all the first-years gathering at his feet and hanging on his every word.

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> Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,  
>  An abbot on an ambling pad,  
>  Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,  
>  Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,  
>  Goes by to tower'd Camelot;  
>  And sometimes thro' the mirror blue  
>  The knights come riding two and two:  
>  She hath no loyal knight and true,  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

The kettle whistled and I poured the boiling water into and over the preserving jars I had lined up in the massive stone sink. Hot steam rose up and whilst I never had enjoyed damp heat in my pre-Silent Isle life, now every chance to warm up was more than welcome.

Mother had used up nearly all our sugar for September to make the redcurrant jam that was bubbling in the pot hanging over the fire, swinging slightly when she stirred the sweet pulp. The scent was delicious, and just like with the potatoes, I was immensely proud of myself for having managed to grow such delicate fruit in this rough climate.

"Are the jars ready? If I read the memory right, currants don't need to be cooked longer than five minutes." Mother held out the cooking spoon for me to taste. It had the length and strength of a toy broom for children; its bowl was blackened and already showed signs of abrasion from the bottom of the wrought-iron cauldron. I would never have done such a thing when I was still the heir of Malfoy Manor, born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I didn't hesitate. I slurped up most of the gelatinising sweetness and although it was so hot I nearly burned my tongue, it was the most delicious thing I had eaten since the Aurors had brought us here.

Filling the jars was a messy affair, but once the scant dozen stood on the shelf in the pantry, Mother and I marvelled at our achievement.

"I still wouldn't bet on it, but it looks as if we might have a chance to survive winter," Mother said, wiping sweat from her brow. Her eyes sparkled, clear blue like a glacier in the sunlight, and I tried to ignore how much the fine wrinkles around them had deepened. Her hair had lost its shine; now frizzy and dull, it made her look older than her years. I assumed that mine looked quite the same ‒ sun, wind and cold were taking their toll on us. Not to forget Mother's home-made soap. She'd been excited when she found the phial with the recipe. Muggles were quite inventive, but on the other hand, what other options did they have? No magic, no house-elves ‒ I'd never been aware of how much harder life is without them.

"Let's have a cup of tea," I said and took Mother's hand. Calloused, speckled with burn marks, the fingertips always chafed raw or freshly scabbed-over from spinning, it couldn't have been more different from the elegant white hand she'd shaken Shacklebolt's with. I had to blink away the wetness rising in my eyes, and the pride and joy vanished as if someone had pulled a plug.

Sipping tea from rugged earthenware cups, we sat in silence at the table under the tower window.

"I checked on the leek patch yesterday," I said. "What do you think of leek soup for dinner?"

I didn't hear Mother's reply ‒ across the Lake, a flash of gold had caught my eye. The Quidditch pitch! They had polished the rings that were always grimy after summer and started training for the new season. If I squinted, I could barely make out fly-sized figures in crimson and emerald green, swooshing through the air. When one surged up high and then raced towards the ground, I was sure it was Potter. And the one trailing him, that could only be Blaise.

"Draco?" Concern tinged Mother's voice.

"Yes," I said and turned away from the window. "Sorry, what did you say?"

She put down her cup and reached over the small table to cup my cheek with a warm hand. "Leek soup would be a welcome variation. I'm a bit tired of stew, I have to admit."

So much was said between the lines, I had to swallow hard. None of us had cried since we started our life on the Silent Isle. We both tried to be strong and proud, to not make things worse for each other by showing how much we missed our old life. Talking about it wouldn't bring it back, only make us long for it even more. But Mother and I, we had always been close, and I was convinced she knew my feelings as well as I knew hers.

"I'll go and pull some for us, then." I stood up, her rough palm scratching over my skin.

Outside, I sat down on a moss-covered rock and closed my eyes. I pretended the wind raking through my hair was the air streaming around me while I raced Potter for the Snitch, our hands stretched out, so close they were nearly touching.

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> But in her web she still delights  
>  To weave the mirror's magic sights,  
>  For often thro' the silent nights  
>  A funeral, with plumes and lights,  
>  And music, went to Camelot:  
>  Or when the moon was overhead,  
>  Came two young lovers lately wed;  
>  "I am half sick of shadows," said  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

They were having a Yule Ball again. While not particularly thrilled about the affair, Harry could see that unlike the last time, Ron and Hermione were having a wonderful time together; when they weren't dancing, they were holding hands and whispering to each other. Harry had asked Luna to be his not-date. She was perfectly fine with the idea and even managed to cajole him into taking a few turns on the dance floor. Luna being Luna, though, soon noticed that he was fast approaching a point where he couldn't stand the overload of noise and throng of relentlessly cheerful people any longer and sent him away.

"There are far too many nargles around," she told him, shooing him towards the door with a tiny, unobtrusive gesture. "They're getting to you. You should go somewhere quiet."

"I can't just abandon you," he protested.

She fluttered her hand, dismissing his concern. "Don't worry about me; I'll be fine."

He hesitated and searched her blue eyes for any hint of subterfuge. Finding none, he gratefully mouthed ‘Thanks!' into her hair before slipping through the crowd and out of the Great Hall. Luna watched him go with a mysterious little smile. A moment later she was dancing again, by herself this time, to a rhythm all her own.

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Soon, Harry found himself atop the Astronomy Tower, looking into the distance. If he strained his ears, he could still hear faint laughter and music, but other than that he was alone with the night. It was chilly outside, making him wish he'd stopped for a cloak, but it meant the sky was clear and no clouds hid the full moon. _Remus …_ As was his wont, Harry went to the south parapet to search for Orion. The constellation was difficult to see in the bright moonlight, but once Harry had made out the three stars forming the Belt, it was easy to draw an almost straight imaginary line downwards from Alnitak to find the bright point of light just above the horizon. Sirius, the Dog Star.

Harry let the inevitable grief of memories and might-have-beens wash through him before he ambled across the platform to look north. Searching for the Big Dipper first, he followed another imaginary line upwards to locate Polaris at the tail end of Canis Minor, and … _yes!_ There, right between the two well-known constellations nestled a third. Less bright, less compact and harder to recognise, but still distinctive stretched the sinuous shape of Draco, the ‘Great Dragon of the North'.

And right below it, here on earth, lay the Black Lake, living more than up to its name in the darkness of the night. The Silent Isle was nothing but an even darker blob in the distance, except for a tiny pinpoint of light. Harry assumed it was a window behind which Draco might sit and … eat? Read? Mend stuff, maybe? Alone, or with his mother?

Harry sighed. He didn't know. He wanted to, though. It really was kind of disturbing how nearly every little thing brought his thoughts back to Draco. And when had _that_ happened, anyway, that he no longer thought about him as Malfoy? Another thing he didn't know ‒ and if Harry was being honest, he didn't really care, either.

He finally acknowledged, though, that he did care about Draco as a person. Care, not be in love. Nonono, no way, nohow. If he thought that it was a shame Draco and his mum likely had none of the warmth, cheer and comfort he'd been able to enjoy all evening, that was simply a normal aspect of compassion and human kindness, right?

Of course it was.

Still, Harry couldn't help but think of how he might possibly bring a little bit of that kindness to Dr— erm, the two exiles. Outside contact was virtually impossible, not to mention forbidden, but surely there must be some way. He just had to find it.

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	3. PART III

 

> A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,  
>  He rode between the barley-sheaves,  
>  The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,  
>  And flamed upon the brazen greaves  
>  Of bold Sir Lancelot.  
>  A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd  
>  To a lady in his shield,  
>  That sparkled on the yellow field,  
>  Beside remote Shalott.

"You lot go ahead without me," Harry called to the other students who had gathered for an impromptu Quidditch game. "I want to try Krum's variation on a Wronski Feint one more time."

"Sure. Have fun," Michael Corner called back.

"Will do. Catch you guys later!"

Hermione and Ron had already left on the Hogwarts Express for the holiday break. Harry had claimed he had a backlog of assignments to finish and so would stay another day but had promised to Apparate to Devon and join the Weasleys at the Burrow later. First, though, he had a mission to accomplish.

To allay any suspicions, he started to fly circles around the nearest goal posts while really watching the chattering group drift towards the locker rooms and hot showers. As soon as the doors had closed behind the last straggler, Harry veered off to Hagrid's hut where he'd hidden a special gift behind the woodpile. Retrieving it and zipping back, past the Whomping Willow and around the castle towards the Lake and the Silent Isle, took but a few minutes.

Being familiar with Draco's daily routine through his previous clandestine visits, Harry knew to fly to the side of the island that housed the chicken coop and goat's shed. As he'd hoped, Draco was out in the weak mid-day sun, milking the goat. He was dressed in baggy, stained and threadbare trousers hanging precariously low on his narrow hips and a shapeless, greyish-white top that looked homemade and was far too big for the slender frame.

Harry thought he looked gorgeous.

Wishing futilely he had one of Molly's lumpy, but wonderfully warm jumpers to give, Harry just sent him a bright smile and slowly lowered his broom until he was nearly skimming the Lake's surface. Balancing was a bit tricky, but he still managed to untangle his gift from under his cape which he'd wrapped it in for protection.

He'd got the idea the morning after the ball. The Headmistress had decided to combine traditional Yule decorations with Muggle ones to further integration among the students, something made easy by the fact that candles, holly, ivy and mistletoe were common to both cultures. Thus Christmas crackers, mince pies and the glittering baubles on the trees shared equal space with wassail, evergreen wreaths and clove-studded oranges. Madame Maxime had donated delicious _bûches de Noël_ , log-shaped cakes, as dessert to every House from Beauxbatons, a Yule bock fashioned from straw bound with red ribbon, sent by Durmstrang's new Headmaster, had stood under the biggest tree and small wooden logs decorated with greenery and candles sat on all the tables.

It hadn't seemed proper to just take one of the decorations from Hogwarts, so Harry had made a quick trip to Hogsmeade. Madam Rosmerta had been happy to sell him one of the logs she'd put up at The Three Broomsticks, and it was this he now brought to the Silent Isle. Without wearing his Cloak, too.

He lowered the foot-long pine log into the water just outside the Shield Spell, applying a balancing spell to keep it upright. The top was decorated with fir branches, a few vines of ivy, pine cones, holly berries and mistletoe, centred around three slim tapered candles in red, green and white. Barring strong waves or interference by the Lake's inhabitants, the whole thing would float for a while even though the decorations made it a bit heavier than usual.

" _Incendio,"_ Harry murmured lastly, lighting all three candles at once. The flames flickered slightly in the breeze but steadied soon enough. Pleased with his efforts, he guided his broom back up to a normal flying height and watched as the Yule log bobbed gently against the barrier. Only then did he sneak a glance at Draco to see how his admittedly meagre present was being received.

The utterly dumbfounded expression on Draco's face ‒ dropped jaw and a stunned look in the wide grey eyes ‒ was rather satisfying. Harry even thought he might want to cause it more often. However, he was caught totally off-guard by what happened next.

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> The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,  
>  Like to some branch of stars we see  
>  Hung in the golden Galaxy.  
>  The bridle bells rang merrily  
>  As he rode down to Camelot:  
>  And from his blazon'd baldric slung  
>  A mighty silver bugle hung,  
>  And as he rode his armour rung,  
>  Beside remote Shalott.

"Thank you, kid." I patted the goat's neck, grabbed the milk bucket and was headed back to the castle when a shadow flitted over the high walls. Being too large for a bird, it could mean only one thing: One of the pesky Gryffindor fourth-years was back, probably with a new bag of rotten fruit, though they should know by now that the Shield charm would block any kind of projectiles.

One would think Potter's blowup would've taught them a lesson, but the crimson-clad arses on their cheap brooms were persistent like carrion flies. I drew a deep breath and walked faster. Though their insults didn't permeate the spell and the fruit just bounced off to fall into the Lake, it was still more than unpleasant not to be able to pay them back.

The shadow criss-crossed across the wall; someone was trying hard to get my attention. Curiosity has always been one of my biggest weaknesses, so before I closed the heavy door behind me, I looked over my shoulder to see who had come to provoke me that day.

I almost dropped the bucket, so strong was the impulse to rub my eyes.

Potter. It was fucking Potter.

So I had been right and wrong at the same time. A crimson-clad arse _was_ paying a visit, but he hadn't arrived on a cheap broom.

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> All in the blue unclouded weather  
>  Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,  
>  The helmet and the helmet-feather  
>  Burn'd like one burning flame together,  
>  As he rode down to Camelot.  
>  As often thro' the purple night,  
>  Below the starry clusters bright,  
>  Some bearded meteor, trailing light,  
>  Moves over still Shalott.

I couldn't have been more surprised if a meteor trailing a glowing tail of light had hit the island. I guess I stared at him like an imbecile, with my jaw dropped open and the sloshing bucket dangling from my hand.

The situation reminded me of our first encounter at Madam Malkin's ‒ I, full of myself, in bespoke trousers and shirt looking down on Potter, with his messy hair and wearing clothes that must've once belonged to an especially fat baby troll. Only now it was me who was too thin for his clothes and whose hair could use a wash and trim.

I had grown so used to the shapeless, greyish-white tunic Mother had made for me from the wool she had spun and woven, and my worn trousers, made even baggier by the various things I regularly stuffed into the pockets, that Potter in his Quidditch gear actually appeared glamorous to me.

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> His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;  
>  On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;  
>  From underneath his helmet flow'd  
>  His coal-black curls as on he rode,  
>  As he rode down to Camelot.  
>  From the bank and from the river  
>  He flash'd into the crystal mirror,  
>  "Tirra lirra," by the river  
>  Sang Sir Lancelot.

His hair shone blueish-black in the sunlight, a sharp contrast to the bright, white smile he was flashing at me. The crimson cape streamed behind him and revealed a well-nourished, muscular body, the broad shoulders nearly bursting through the seams of the tight Quidditch uniform.

And his broomstick! I'd never seen a more beautiful broom; must be the latest Firebolt model. Ebony wood, polished until it nearly outshone Potter's hair, with a thick bunch of birch twigs forming the tail end. Potter's feet, most certainly enviably warm and dry in his knee-high boots, rested on gleaming foot grips. The piping on his jersey gleamed golden, just like the clasps holding his arm- and leg-protectors in place.

Seriously, Potter glittered and sparkled like a Christmas tree.

Speaking of which ‒ he had the gall to put a log which he'd decorated with candles, fir branches and whatnot into the water. A Christmas log, if you need a name for it. He lit the candles and smiled at me as if he'd brought me the counterspell to the Shield charm.

Fine, I understood. He had come to see if we were grateful because he had saved us from Azkaban.

Oh, I remembered his whinging all too well, his endless complaints about how the Wizengamot had ignored his testimony. Again and again, he'd apologised and repeated that he'd done his best to convince the Ministry that we'd helped him when nobody else was there to save him.

And now he was back at school, taking classes and playing Quidditch as if nothing had happened while I was only a couple of miles away, starving and freezing on this godforsaken island!

Fuck him! When he had to fight Voldemort, he never gave up. But who am I in comparison to the Dark Lord? Someone he used to know. Someone who could easily be forgotten. Someone he only thought of when all that Christmas talk about caring for your fellow human beings as for yourself appealed to his conscience. Someone he brought a log and some candles he probably didn't even have to pay for.

Such a true act of charity, Potter, to drop by and light some candles. Gives me all the warm and fuzzy feelings, seriously.

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> She left the web, she left the loom,  
>  She made three paces thro' the room,  
>  She saw the water-lily bloom,  
>  She saw the helmet and the plume,  
>  She look'd down to Camelot.  
>  Out flew the web and floated wide;  
>  The mirror crack'd from side to side;  
>  "The curse is come upon me," cried  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

To say that Harry was shocked by Draco's reaction was putting it mildly.

He really had meant to just bring a little seasonal cheer to the island, a bit of beauty and light to brighten what had to be a rather bleak existence. He most certainly had _not_ expected to see Draco flush with anger; shake his fists and start shouting at him. Of course, the barrier prevented sound from getting through, as usual, but years of experience with Draco's rages told him the words flying from his mouth likely weren't very nice.

When Draco whirled around and all but ran back into the dilapidated building, Harry sat motionless on his broom, thoroughly bewildered. Not that he'd counted on receiving expressions of undying gratitude, but a little acknowledgement would've been nice, given that Harry had actually shown himself this time instead of hiding under his Invisibility Cloak.

Suddenly it hit him with the force of a dozen rogue Bludgers. The Malfoys weren't supposed to have outside contact. What if his well-meant gesture of goodwill was construed as such?

"Oh fuck!"

It was the very same thing he'd berated Abercrombie and his friends for. He'd told the stupid buggers himself that any reaction from Draco to their antics, however negatively, could raise an alarm at the Ministry and at the very least ruin any chance at parole Harry was petitioning for. At worst, the Aurors would remove him from the Silent Isle and send him to Azkaban.

_Merlin, I'm an idiot. What have I done?_

Stricken, Harry looked up at the top of the small tower, where Draco had appeared and was glaring at him with rage-filled eyes. Mrs Malfoy had come up behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder and was obviously trying to soothe Draco, but to no avail. He still seemed to vibrate with incandescent fury. Not that Harry could blame him.

He had no idea how to express regret or contrition over his unintentional blunder, considering that he dared neither speak, write or otherwise communicate with mother and son. So he did the only thing he could: return to the castle and hope to heaven that ignoring Draco would be enough to prevent any repercussions for his misguided gesture.

With a heavy heart, Harry risked a last look back over his shoulder, sent a silent ‘I'm so sorry!' at the two windswept figures and did just that.

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	4. PART IV

> In the stormy east-wind straining,  
>  The pale yellow woods were waning,  
>  The broad stream in his banks complaining,  
>  Heavily the low sky raining  
>  Over tower'd Camelot;  
>  Down she came and found a boat  
>  Beneath a willow left afloat,  
>  And round about the prow she wrote  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

Black clouds were towering up over the snow-covered peaks, beaten forward by a sharp wind that turned the Lake into a churning mess and raked through my hair like an ice queen's long-nailed fingers. The first fat raindrops darkened the rocks as I crouched beside our small fishing boat and carved my name in the bow with my knife. That way everybody would at least know who had rowed that boat.

Because I'd find a breach in that damn Shield charm or die trying. I'd show them that I cared nothing about any verdict from the bloody Wizengamot.

Potter had made me break the restraining order. I had yelled at him and thus most likely activated the monitoring spells at the Ministry. But I'd rather die in a Grindylow's embrace tonight than let myself be locked away in Azkaban.

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> And down the river's dim expanse -  
>  Like some bold seer in a trance,  
>  Seeing all his own mischance -  
>  With a glassy countenance  
>  Did she look to Camelot.  
>  And at the closing of the day  
>  She loosed the chain, and down she lay;  
>  The broad stream bore her far away,  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

The only thing I cared about now was confronting Potter. Potter, the fucking Saviour, the bloody Boy Who Only Lived because Mother and I had lied to the Dark Lord, which could've easily cost us our own lives. All I could think of was the urge to yell into his face what a bloody failure at being a saviour he was.

If he had really wanted to help, he would've long convinced the Ministry to extract his memory ‒ or ours ‒ to see who was speaking the truth and who was just too prejudiced to even consider that possibility.

The rain fell heavily now, a constant icy downpour, and the natural imperviousness of the wool couldn't protect me any longer from getting soaked to the skin. I shivered, my fingers already clumsy with cold as I loosened the chain tying our boat to a wrought-iron ring set in the rock.

When I sat down on the narrow bench, Mother's silhouette appeared in the firelit window of the tower. She'd tried to stop me, in vain. I didn't want to think about drowning in the Lake or how ‒ if ‒ she would survive without me here. I was utterly fed up with life fucking me over, again and again, putting me in situations where I had no choice other than to act according to the will of someone who didn't care for me at all ‒ the Dark Lord ‒ or even despised me ‒ the oh-so-righteous witches and wizards of the Wizengamot. Not to mention Father, who never cared for my own ambitions but only wanted to turn me into a younger version of himself.

There'd always been one person who could've helped me out of all that: Potter. If he'd only accepted my offer of friendship, he might've been able to protect me from the fate awaiting me. If he'd only thrown all the weight of his Saviour status into the balance, I was sure our sentence wouldn't have been that harsh.

I pushed the boat away from the rocks with an oar, the rudder post already slippery from the rain.

How saviour-like was it to sit well-fed and warm in his common room, sipping pumpkin juice? While we, who had risked our lives for him, were close to losing them to cold and hunger?

I started rowing. This close to the rocks, the waves were capricious and made it hard to keep the boat steady. The Wizengamot could go fuck themselves. I had nothing to lose, had I? There was nothing left to strip me of or do to me to make my situation any worse. Azkaban? I laughed at the thought and rowed harder.

The orange glow of the tower window was soon hidden by the curtain of rain. For a moment I feared I had lost direction until a glance over my shoulder reassured me. Hogwarts with all its lit windows glittered in the darkness like the milky way on a clear night.

I rowed and rowed. Down in the valleys of the waves, with nothing but black walls of water rising up around me, I was sure I was just led in a circle by the Shield charm, scraping along its invisible barrier. Riding up the next wave's crest, I almost doubted my eyes when the castle loomed like a beacon made of stone at the far shore.

I gritted my teeth, ignored the water seeping into the boat through the leaking bottom and rowed on until my fingers, frozen stiff and numb, lost their grip on the oars.

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> Lying, robed in snowy white  
>  That loosely flew to left and right -  
>  The leaves upon her falling light -  
>  Thro' the noises of the night  
>  She floated down to Camelot:  
>  And as the boat-head wound along  
>  The willowy hills and fields among,  
>  They heard her singing her last song.  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

Harry returned to Hogwarts early the next morning despite the Weasleys' entreaties to stay with them until the New Year, like Hermione. Not even the homey atmosphere at the Burrow and Molly's excellent cooking could keep him away. If there were to be any consequences for his stupid blunder, he needed to be present to do as much damage control as he could.

The weather had taken a bad turn since he'd left; rain was lashing against the tower's window panes, to the point where the lights in the common room had flickered to life even though it was barely past mid-morning. The gloomy atmosphere matched Harry's mood; he was still beating himself up over his thoughtless misstep as he morosely stared out of the window overlooking the churning Black Lake.

The Silent Isle was but a speck in the distance; he pictured the waves crashing against its rocky shore in violent sprays. Not even the Giant Squid poked a single tentacle from its underwater lair. Unwillingly, Harry was reminded both of the isolated hut on the rock Vernon had taken his family to while trying to outrun Harry's Hogwarts letters and the seaside cave where Voldemort had hidden Slytherin's locket. Neither the Lake nor the island was as remote or as ominous, but he still shuddered at the memory of precarious trips in flimsy boats.

For once, he was almost grateful for the Shield Spell barrier, as it would keep Draco safely on the island.

His train of thought was derailed by a second-year who'd opened the window next to him to let in a grumpy, bedraggled owl which had somehow missed the morning mail delivery.

"Hey, is that a boat?" the girl chirped. "Marissa," she beckoned to her friend, "come look ‒ someone's out on the Lake!"

In an instant, Harry had yanked his own window open, causing several protests from the few students sitting around the fireplace when they were hit by a gust of damp, chill air blasting into the common room. "Oi, Harry! Are you daft?" someone complained angrily.

Harry was leaning out of the window as far as he could. Already his glasses had fogged over and were all but useless, but he could still make out the nutshell of a boat being buffeted by rain and wind as it cut through the waves towards Hogwarts. A single person was slumped over the oars. _Draco!_

"No, someone else is," he yelped, slammed the window shut and sprinted towards the portrait hole.

"I'm gonna kill the idiot," he fumed as he raced down the staircases to the Entry Hall, yanked the big double doors open and jumped the few steps into the courtyard. Cursing the fact that he couldn't Apparate, Harry ran as fast as he could across the quad, sent a blasting hex against the gates so they swung open and took a sharp left onto the footpath along the castle wall. He only had a vague notion of where the Durmstrang ship had surfaced from the Lake all those years ago to guide him.

He didn't even know whether Draco would land in the same spot, but at least he'd be able to see where the boat was headed; he'd take it from there once he reached the water's edge.

Harry nearly took a header into the Lake when he finally skidded to a halt as soon as he had a good view of the open water. Rain pelted down on his head and back, he was gasping for air and his sides ached fiercely as he doubled over from exertion, but at least he saw that he'd calculated correctly.

The boat's course was very erratic, but still headed towards Harry. However, nobody seemed to be steering it ‒ there was only one oar which dangled precariously over the side, and Draco ‒ Draco wasn't moving! Without hesitation, Harry waded into the choppy waves, not caring that he was drenched to the skin within seconds. All that mattered was to drag the boat ashore and bring Draco to safety.

Panting with exhaustion, Harry pressed two fingers against Draco's jaw, just below his ear. For an instant or two, all he could feel was icy, clammy skin. Harry's heart nearly stopped with sudden fear. Suddenly, he felt a pulse. First one sluggish beat, then another. He wasn't dead then, merely unconscious.

_Oh, thank Merlin!_

Redoubling his efforts, Harry managed to get close enough to drape one of Draco's arms across his own shoulder and try to lift him out of the boat. The movement brought Draco back to his senses.

Disoriented, Draco blinked until he realised where he was … and who was with him. His pale, haggard face contorted in fury and he started to fight Harry's hold, almost capsizing the rickety vessel in the process.

"Easy there," Harry started, only to be cut off by Draco's hoarse, scratchy voice.

"Potter," he croaked. "Potter, you moronic coward!"

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> Heard a carol, mournful, holy,  
>  Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,  
>  Till her blood was frozen slowly,  
>  And her eyes were darken'd wholly,  
>  Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.  
>  For ere she reach'd upon the tide  
>  The first house by the water-side,  
>  Singing in her song she died  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

Taken aback at the unexpected vitriol, Harry nearly dropped him back onto the bench. Only the realisation that Draco most likely needed immediate medical attention let him hold on.

_Fuck, he looks awful!_

Despite the anger burning in their depths, the grey eyes were dull and sunk deep into their sockets, ringed by dark circles that spoke of utter exhaustion. Draco's lips had a decidedly blue tinge against his chalky-white face and every movement was jerky and stiff as he struggled to climb out of the boat under his own steam. Harry tightened his grip and braced the bony back to help.

Of course, Draco had to be contrary even as he sagged against Harry's sturdy frame. "Let go of me!"

Despite the dire situation, Harry had to grin. _Predictable much?_ "No way."

With an incoherent cry, Draco started flailing about, beating his fists weakly against Harry's arms, back and chest. Harry didn't flinch, just held on even more firmly.

"Draco, I—"

"DON'T YOU DARE USE MY NAME, YOU BASTARD! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!"

Amazing how loudly a barely conscious, half-drowned man could shout.

"Malfoy, then," Harry offered in an effort to placate him, discarding most of what he might have said under any other circumstance on the spot. He had more immediate concerns. Draco's too-thin clothes were sopping wet, clinging to his emaciated frame, and he looked more than half-frozen. "Listen, we can talk all you want once I've brought you to Madam Pomfrey. Just let us get in out of the cold first, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere with _you_ ," Draco spat, swaying alarmingly as he finally managed to stand. He swore at his lack of balance. "You're … mus' t'll you tha- … I'm … you are—" he began, groaned piteously and clutched his head. "Potter, I … you—"

Then his eyes rolled back, he gasped once and collapsed like a puppet whose strings were being cut one by one. Only his quick reflexes enabled Harry to catch Draco before he landed full-length in the water.

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> Under tower and balcony,  
>  By garden-wall and gallery,  
>  A gleaming shape she floated by,  
>  Dead-pale between the houses high,  
>  Silent into Camelot.  
>  Out upon the wharfs they came,  
>  Knight and burgher, lord and dame.  
>  And round the prow they read her name,  
>  The Lady of Shalott.

"Oof!"

Harry staggered and nearly collapsed himself as he was unexpectedly burdened with Draco's totally unresponsive body. For one panicky moment the phrase ‘dead weight' flashed through his mind, but then a rattling breath was drawn next to his ear and he sagged with relief. Draco was merely unconscious again.

He was also damned heavy, despite being thin to the point of emaciation. Harry could feel every one of Draco's ribs even as he struggled to stay upright on the slippery rocks and manoeuvre both of them back onto dry ‒ well, less wet, anyway ‒ land without dunking both of them. Harry started to curse a blue streak when an unfamiliar hand gripped his arm and a voice said, "I've got you, man. Let me help."

Harry caught a flash of yellow around the bloke's throat ‒ _Hufflepuff, then ‒_ and thought he recognized Kevin Whitby, but couldn't be sure. Whatever; what mattered was that he steadied Draco long enough for Harry to regain solid footing.

"Somebody conjure a blanket," he requested hoarsely, fumbling for his wand. He knew he'd had it when he ran down from Gryffindor tower, but if he'd lost it … no, there it was, held out to him hilt-first by a wide-eyed girl in Ravenclaw colours. He nodded his thanks, suddenly becoming aware that there were nearly a dozen students of all Houses gathered around them. Apparently, his mad dash across the school had drawn an audience. Well, fuck it; all he cared about right now was to get Draco out of the freezing rain and into Madam Pomfrey's capable hands as soon as possible.

With Kevin's assistance, he wrapped Draco into the blanket he'd asked for, then swished and flicked his wand. _"Wingardium Leviosa."_ Draco's limp body rose up from the ground. His head tossed a bit and he moaned once but stayed otherwise still. One of the older students thoughtfully cast an _Impervious_ charm on both of them, making Harry flinch even though he appreciated the small kindness. "Thanks," he muttered at the group in general. "I'm taking him to the hospital wing now …"

"Go ahead, Harry," another student whose name Harry couldn't recall said. "I'll make sure everybody gets back safely."

"Uh-huh." Harry was incapable of anything but a distracted grunt after incanting _Locomotor_. He put his free hand on Draco's ankle to better direct his motionless form and began the arduous trek back to the castle.

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"Who was that?" the little Ravenclaw who'd found Harry's wand asked.

"Harry Potter," someone said.

"Well, duh," she retorted, scowling indignantly at the speaker. "I meant the bloke in the boat ‒ and who would be out on the Lake at night, in this kind of weather, anyway?"

"Someone stupid," a voice called from the back, to a few cackles from others.

"Or someone desperate," Whitby murmured as he used his wand to pull the battered boat completely ashore. "Someone who has nothing to lose ‒ like Draco Malfoy."

There was a moment of incredulous silence. "But … isn't he in Azkaban?" the girl asked.

"No, he was exiled for life to the Silent Isle, behind an impenetrable Shield Spell." Of course a Slytherin would know.

"Where's that?"

Whitby jerked his thumb over his shoulder to somewhere across the Black Lake. "Over there."

Another Ravenclaw spoke up. "If the shield is impenetrable, how did he get through? And how do you know it's him, anyway?"

Whitby smiled wryly. "First, I have no idea ‒ and second, I recognise him from before the War. The hair, you know." He tied the boat to a rock with a Conjured rope and straightened, rubbing warmth back into his hands. "Plus, there's also that."

He pointed at the boat's bow. There were letters carved into the top board ‒ nearly invisible in the dark, warped and distorted by wetness. They all peered closely, one or two even tracing the crude lines with their fingertips.

"Bloody hell, it really says Draco Malfoy!"

Whitby wiped raindrops from his cheeks and smirked. "Kind of a dead giveaway, wouldn't you say?"

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> Who is this? and what is here?  
>  And in the lighted palace near  
>  Died the sound of royal cheer;  
>  And they cross'd themselves for fear,  
>  All the knights at Camelot:  
>  But Lancelot mused a little space;  
>  He said, "She has a lovely face;  
>  God in his mercy lend her grace.  
>  The Lady of Shalott."

"Is he dead?" Euan Abercrombie whispered, looking shocked as Harry passed him in the Entrance Hall.

Harry ignored him, too focused on keeping up both the Levitation and Mobility charms as he manoeuvred Draco's unmoving body towards the Grand Staircase and up, past curious students and whispering portraits, intent only on reaching the Hospital Wing as fast as possible.

Barely avoiding the trick step, he was shouting for Madam Pomfrey even before he was faced with the conundrum of opening the Infirmary door without losing control of his spells. Lucky for him, the mediwitch had already been alerted and had flung the door wide.

"Over here, Mr Potter! Quickly!"

She deftly took over, guiding Draco onto the nearest bed. The door banged shut again, cutting off the stares of nosy students who had followed in Harry's wake. Then she started wielding her wand with almost frightening speed and accuracy. In practically no time at all, she had Draco stripped, dried and in hospital pyjamas and was casting one diagnostic spell after the other, all the while muttering angrily to herself.

"Silly boy, what were you thinking? You don't chase a Crup outside in weather like this, never mind trying to cross the Lake in a leaky boat!"

One of her spells flared in electric purple light.

"Oh, bother!"

If anything, her spells flew faster. "Exposure, borderline frostbite … Nimue and Morgana, beginning malnutrition, too? You poor thing!"

Harry stood pressed against the wall, almost paralyzed with fear at the litany of symptoms. He already knew that Draco's pulse was thready at best and could hear his rattling breath even at a distance. Madam Pomfrey was quite competent, she'd patched him up often enough in the past, but she _was_ just a mediwitch ‒ what if Draco's condition for once exceeded her skills? What if he needed a Healer, or to be transferred to St Mungo's?

Did the terms of Draco's sentence even allow medical care in an emergency?

He decided that he couldn't care less. Now that he had Draco here, he would see that he got what he needed. If the Ministry and the Wizengamot didn't like it, they could just sod off.

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When Kevin Whitby herded the group of students who'd followed Harry to the shore back into the castle, the rumours had already started flying faster than spellfire.

"Did you hear? Potter brought Malfoy!"

"He's dying, isn't he?"

"Already dead ‒ the Shield Spell killed him when he broke through!"

"No, he froze to death. It's the middle of winter, and he was out in the storm who knows how long!"

Whitby shook his head. "No, he's still alive ‒ at least, he was when we dragged him from the boat," he said. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by almost every student who'd remained at Hogwarts over the holidays. Finding himself the centre of everyone's attention, he couldn't resist bragging a little.

"I was there; I saw everything," he said, raising his voice enough so that all could hear. "And let me tell you, Malfoy was cussing Harry out just as bad as ever! Almost as if he didn't _want_ to be rescued!"

"At least not by Potter," the Slytherin who'd been there as well snarked.

"What did Malfoy say?" a curious firstie wanted to know, staring at Kevin with avid brown eyes.

Somewhere in the throng, a Prefect cleared her throat in warning. Taking the hint, Whitby shrugged. "I'll tell you when you're older. Maybe."

"Aww!" The firstie wasn't the only one groaning in disappointment.

"That's enough, all of you," the Prefect said. "Harry Potter saved Malfoy ‒ again, he's not dead yet, and Madam Pomfrey is looking after him. That's all we know for certain. Anything else can wait. Now scram!"

They scrammed ‒ all except Abercrombie, that is. He'd slid down the nearest wall and was now huddled on the floor, the picture of misery. His hands were clenched between his drawn-up knees, but Whitby could still see that he was trembling. Kevin hesitated. They weren't friends and Abercrombie wasn't of his House, but they shared a lot of classes and thus knew each other reasonably well. Not a single Gryffindor or Prefect was in sight, much less a teacher.

So it was up to him, the Hufflepuff. Whitby sighed and hunkered down next to his year mate. "You okay, Euan?" he asked.

Abercrombie shook his head. "No."

"Why? I thought you hated Malfoy." The report of the dressing-down Harry had given the boy and his cronies had made the rounds, too.

The boy gulped. "I do," he said. "But … but I kinda also don't want him dead. Not seriously, y'know?."

Neither he nor Whitby had been at the Battle of Hogwarts, but Kevin had had relatives on both sides of the War; one of his uncles had fought on Voldemort's side and another had died in the defence of Hogsmeade. The whole family was still reeling under the fallout.

"It's easy at a distance, isn't it," he said at last. "Nobody tells you it's different when you know the people you're supposed to hate."

"Yeah." Abercrombie sniffled. "It's just … when I saw Harry bring him in, Malfoy _looked_ dead. And I … I felt awful!" A few heartbeats later, he added almost inaudibly, "Still do, really."

"Why? Because Malfoy isn't actually dead, or because you wished him to be?"

The boy hesitated. "Both," he whispered at last, then started to cry.

"Oh, Euan." Whitby sighed and draped an arm around the shaking shoulders. If he only could've heard the things Malfoy had said when he realised it was Potter who was hauling him ashore, Euan would be half as devastated. Which gave him an idea. He gave the narrow back a friendly pat.

"You know … Malfoy was cussing way too much for someone who's in serious danger of kicking the cauldron anytime soon," he said musingly.

Abercrombie peeked at him out of wet, reddened eyes. "R-really?"

Whitby grinned and winked. Looked as if he got to tell the juicy details after all! "Oh yeah. Like, when he first regained consciousness, he …"

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I had no idea how long I'd been out. But I knew perfectly well where I was. The white sheets, starched so much they were a little scratchy, the lingering taste of Pepper-Up on my tongue and the distinctive lemony smell of Madam Pomfrey's Cleaning charms had given it away before I was fully awake: I was at Hogwarts, in the Hospital Wing.

I couldn't tell whether it was dusk or dawn; the twilight seeping through the windows just sucked the colour out of everything. It was like waking up in a world reduced to shades of grey. Hail drummed against the windows as if giants were throwing fistfuls of pebbles at them.

Poor Mother, she was probably worried to death ‒ how likely was it for me to survive in that weather? I tried to sit up. How likely was it for me to reach the Lakeside at all? Shouldn't the Shield charm have prevented me from leaving the Silent Isle? I cleared my throat to call for Madam Pomfrey. If I could break the shield, maybe an owl could get through to Mother.

"Ma—" The croaked syllable was drowned out by the banging of the door and Potter's voice.

"How often do I have to tell you, Mr Carduroy? You can't take Dr— uh, Malfoy back to the Isle now. He's sick, he almost died out there on the Lake!" He sounded flat, strained, as if it cost him every bit of self-control not to yell at the Auror. I knew the feeling; Carduroy had a talent to make one want to punch him in the face.

"Not your decision to make, Mr ‒ ah ‒ Potter, right? I have strict orders to Apparate him back immediately."

I could literally _hear_ the smug smile on Carduroy's face and the need to punch him grew. They were close now, Potter's footfall light in comparison to the Auror's heavy tread that was accompanied by a squelching sound. Unfortunately Filch, who normally would threaten to flog any student daring to enter the Hospital Wing with mud on their shoes, was too much of a bootlicker when it came to authorities to give Carduroy a piece of his mind. I quickly lay back down, slid deeper under the sheets and pretended to be still asleep.

The footsteps stopped at my bed and a shadow fell over me. I peeked through my lashes and saw Potter standing protectively at the side of my bed, his back towards me. Which meant his arse was only inches from my face. Gorgeous. Even when clad in those ugly blue Muggle trousers. Jones. James. No, wait ‒ jeans!

"You're not taking him anywhere until I have spoken to the Minister himself," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, but I will, Mr Potter. You're risking an offence report for interfering with an Auror in the performance of his du—"

A crashing sound from one of the windows made us all wince; fortunately, Potter and the sheets hid my reaction well enough.

"What in Merlin's—" Potter swore, the rest drowned out by the desperate flapping coming from outside. "That's an owl." His shadow vanished, the window creaked and a cold gust of wind swept through the room.

"Poor you," Potter murmured and I imagined him smoothing the bird's ruffled wet feathers. "Would you close the window, Mr Carduroy," he added, returning to the bed. "That's a message from the Ministry. I'm sure it's important if they force an owl halfway across the country to deliver it in this weather."

"Let me see," Carduroy demanded in his I'm-the-important-person-here-voice and snatched the bird out of Potter's hand. They were so focused on one another that I dared to open both my eyes to watch.

How glad I am that I did! I'll never forget Carduroy's face when he read the message. Without a word, he crumpled the wet parchment into a ball, threw it across the room and stomped out of the room, his dramatic exit spoiled by his still-squelching boots. But he managed to slam the door shut quite well.

Potter shook his head. "Kings really needs better staff," he murmured as he went to pick up the note. Smoothing out the creases, he returned to my bed and sat on the mattress. His eyes darted across the lines and when he was done, he started to laugh.

I quickly closed my eyes when he turned towards me. Potter took my hand and ran his thumb over the back. "It's a good thing you're sleeping through all of this. You know that I wouldn't have let him take you away again, don't you? Not when it was my fault that you got into trouble."

His weight shifted as he moved; he probably was raking his fingers through his hair as always whenever he was agitated.

"I only just got you back. If I've learned one thing from this whole mess, it's that I need you in my life. I need your wit, I need your sarcasm, I need you to challenge me every day of my life." He sat there for a moment, stroking my hand and pushing a strand of hair out of my face.

"I'm a better me when you're around. I don't know what to do when you're not around to make me prove myself again and again." He prepared to stand up and his fingers loosened around mine. "Well, you need your sleep. I'll come back later."

I couldn't let that happen, so I tightened my hold on his hand and pulled him back down. "Potter, don't be an even bigger moron than usual. You're not getting to run away from this now!"

Caught off guard, he lost his balance and fell on top of me. His glasses were a cold pressure at my temple, but his breath was hot on my mouth as he whispered, "Malfoy ... Draco, what— I—"

"I heard," I said. "You need me in your life. And you need me so you can prove yourself. Well, here's your chance ‒ _prove_ how much you need me!"

As it turned out, Potter was neither a moron nor a coward at all when it came to kissing. Actually, he proved himself worthy of all the snark and sarcasm I would've had to offer. If my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.

Once I had recovered my breath, I asked, "What did the Minister have to say? Why am I still here and not on my way back to the Silent Isle with the charming Mr Carduroy?"

"Read for yourself," he said and his eyes sparkled as handed me the parchment, now even more crumpled.

_Harry ‒_ the Minister wrote,

_So Mr Malfoy finally managed to escape and reach Hogwarts despite the most inclement weather conditions last night. Good for him!_

_Frankly, I'm surprised it took him until now._

_Before you Apparate into my office and try to hex me into oblivion, please let me explain (this is just a summary of the Wizengamot's decree, so bear with me and actually read it, young man):_

  1. _There can be no doubt that the Malfoy family as a whole supported Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka 'Lord Voldemort', and his terrorist organisation for years by word, deed and through giving financial and political support._
  2. _Narcissa Malfoy, née Black and her son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, both ultimately renounced the insurgent and his agenda._
  3. _Narcissa and Draco Malfoy individually lent help to Harry James Potter on two separate occasions (cf. verified Pensieve testimony by HJP) at crucial moments during the final days of the conflict and at peril of their own lives._



_That being said, the Ministry of Magic and its judiciary, the Wizengamot, were not as unsympathetic to your arguments and various petitions as we made you believe; it was always our intention to eventually offer them leniency, if not a partial or even full parole. However, before we did so, it was decided that a set of conditions had to be met:_

  * _Both Narcissa and Draco Malfoy had to own the fact that they broke the law._
  * _They had to acknowledge the Wizengamot's right and duty to sentence them._
  * _They had to comply fully with the terms of said sentence._
  * _If at one point either or both should choose to disregard those terms, it had to be for a valid reason._



_The Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot agree that all of the above conditions have been met and that a remission of sentence can therefore be granted._

  _This decision has been reached because of a number of mitigating reasons (most of which you already pointed out ad nauseam):_

  * _Mrs Malfoy was at least in part bound by her marriage vows to follow the political agenda of her husband, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy._
  * _At the time Draco Malfoy joined Riddle's organisation, he was still a minor._
  * _Both Mrs and Mr Malfoy in essence defected, although for mainly personal reasons._
  * _Arguably, the sentence passed was unnecessarily harsh._



  _To make a long story short, both Malfoys impressed the Ministry and Wizengamot by acknowledging their guilt and expressing remorse. They proved it by submitting without complaint (mostly, anyway; I've heard things about young Draco) to their exile and made the best they could of their altered circumstances, which is why they're being pardoned._

  _On a more personal note (and yes, you may share this with them), the Wizengamot and I never intended to keep the Malfoys on the Silent Isle indefinitely – and the threat of Azkaban was ever only just that, a threat. Even the Shield was never truly impenetrable; we merely told them it was. Well, it was from the outside, to protect them from exactly the kind of attack you reported. (I hope you already gave those young idiots a good bollocking; if not, I certainly will. Or let Minerva do it; your choice.) From the inside, not so much._

_Anyway, in effect the Malfoys created their own prison by assuming they were locked in. They could have left the island at any time. It speaks to their characters that they didn't try to break out earlier._

_Why didn't I tell you? Because I took a Wizard's Oath not to. We all swore not to tell anybody. If the press had got wind of the truth, the public would've stormed the barricades, and the one thing we didn't need after the trials was a riot._

_So go ahead and give Mrs and Mr Malfoy the happy news – as of today, they're free to leave the Silent Isle and return to their home, official confirmation to follow. (There are a few details yet to hammer out, but they can wait a while.)_

_I hope this will show you that you can trust the Ministry to do the right thing, even if you can't see it right away._

_Your friend,_

 

_Kingsley Shacklebolt  
Minister for Magic_

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** The End. **

** ЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭЄЭ  
**

**Author's Note:**

> The poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) which inspired this story is The Lady of Shalott, originally published in 1833. It is quoted without permission; no copyright infringement is intended. We also took the story's title from the penultimate line of the second stanza.
> 
> ____
> 
> Euan Abercrombie was Sorted Gryffindor in 1995, in Harry's 5th year. His friend "girl Olney" gets her name from Kate Olney, a character mentioned in the PoA and HBP video games (PS2 resp. NDS versions). She was a Gryffindor roughly Harry's age, though probably not in his year. Source: Harry Potter Wikia, here
> 
> Kevin Whitby appeared in GoF.  
> ____
> 
> Scene breakers are courtesy of [Whitehound](http://members.madasafish.com/~cj_whitehound/Fanfic/ffn_how-to.htm).


End file.
